Horseman of the Shadows (12 page)

Ready for instant action, Slade, one shirt sleeve ripped to shreds, two holes through the crown of his hat, blood trickling over his left hand from his bullet gashed arm, glided forward cautiously.

A glance told him that Evers’ two followers were dead. Evers himself was still alive but going fast, his chest shattered, his lungs riddled by the slugs from the Ranger’s guns. Slade holstered his empty Colts and bent over him.

Evers glared up. His glazing eyes fixed on the gleaming star.

“A Ranger!” he gurgled through the blood welling in his throat. “
El Halcón
, a Texas Ranger! If I’d known that, I’d have pulled out long ago. You can’t — buck — the Rangers!”

“Yes, I’m a Ranger,” Slade said. “Undercover man for McNelty’s company. Why not come clean, Evers? May make taking the Big Jump easier. Tim Billings was in on the scheme, wasn’t he?”

Nelson Evers was looking across into eternity, and seeing it wasn’t far.

“Yes,” he gasped. “He figured if there was enough trouble from the Mexicans along the Border, the Federal government would take over the Chamizal and it would become Texas State land and with his influence he’d be able to bid it in, and, as you guessed, later dispose of it at a tremendous profit. Didn’t work. But you’ll never be able to pin it on him. Nobody can ever prove anything against Tim Billings. Damn his crooked soul to the — hell — to — which — I’m — going!”

With that curse on his lips, he died.

W
ALT
S
LADE STRAIGHTENED UP WEARILY
. A
UTOMATICALLY
he drew his guns and replaced the spent shells with fresh cartridges. He examined his wounded arm, managed to pad and bandage it, after a fashion. Then he returned to where Shadow waited, leaving the bodies lying where they were. He suddenly felt very tired, but he would have to return to the Circle S ranchhouse, drag the bound and gaggled outlaw from the brush and, if possible, locate his horse and remove the rig.

After getting the rigs off the three wideloopers’ horses, he mounted and rode back east by south.

Upon reaching the ranchhouse, he was relieved to see the bound outlaw’s horse standing patiently by the barn door. Opening the door, he struck a match, located a lantern and stalled the horse, giving Shadow a helping of oats from a bin. Then he made his way into the growth to find the outlaw conscious, writhing and trying to swear.

Slade carried him into the open, removed the gag and the bonds and gave him a once-over. He was a rather unsavory looking specimen that cringed away from
El Halcón
’s eyes.

“Any more of your bunch mavericking around?” Slade asked. The fellow shook his head.

“Not if you did for Evers and Prout and Kull, as I reckon you must have,” he quavered. “I’m the only one left.”

Slade believed him.

“We’re going into the house, now,” he said. “Here’s a match. Light the lamp when we get inside, and don’t try anything funny if you hanker to stay ‘left.’”

The fellow shivered. “I ain’t going to try anything,” he declared emphatically. “I’d heard of you before we came here. Fact is, when you showed up, I told Evers we’d better pull out pronto, nobody could buck
El Halcón
. He laughed and said you were just a stupid owlhoot he didn’t pay no mind to. Guess he ain’t laughing now.”

“He certainly wasn’t when last I saw him,” Slade said. The outlaw shivered again. He took the match, led the way to the door, which he opened; moonlight streamed into the room.

Slade watched him closely as he bent over the lamp, although he did not think there was anything to fear from him; the fellow was thoroughly cowed.

The light flared up, showing a comfortably furnished room. Slade motioned the other to a chair, and occupied one himself.

“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.

“Wolfson,” the other replied. “Jerry Wolfson.”

“All right, Jerry, suppose you answer a few questions,” the Ranger suggested.

“I’ll answer anything,” Wolfson instantly complied.

“You fellows were responsible for all the things that have been happening hereabouts?”

“That’s right,” the other answered.

“Like setting fire to the packing house, stirring up trouble between the riverfront gangs, trying to rob the stage, widelooping the cattle, and so on?”

“Uh-huh, we did it.”

“Why?” Slade asked.

“Well, the big notion was to get the Mexicans on the prod against El Paso folks and maybe start a big row.”

“That eventually would cause the Federal government to step in, take over the Chamizal, which would then become Texas State Land?”

“Uh-huh, that’s what we came here for. Saw there were lots of fat pickings to be had and we sorta branched out a bit.”

“I see, robbery and cattle stealing as a sideline,” said Slade.

“Guess that was about the way of it,” Wolfson agreed.

“And Tim Billings over to the capital was back of the scheme?”

“Guess he was,” Wolfson admitted. “I couldn’t prove it, though — nobody can ever prove anything against Billings — but him and Evers palled around together and he sent out the word for us boys to do what Evers told us to do.” He glowered a bit.

“But because of you it didn’t pan out. You sure threw a monkey wrench into the works.”

Slade pondered a moment. “Wolfson,” he said at length, his cold eyes hard on the outlaw’s face, “if you tell the sheriff what you told me and answer all his questions truthfully, I’ll say a word to him and the court, and it may go easier for you.”

Frankly, he doubted if anything much could be proven against the hellion, doubtful if his offhand confession would go for much in court, with a lawyer picking holes in it. Didn’t matter much, anyhow, he was just a hired hand and if the scare he got didn’t straighten him out, he would get his comeuppance eventually.

Wolfson accepted the offer with alacrity. “I’ll tell everything,” he promised. “All I know.”

“Okay,” Slade nodded, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I suppose you know the layout here; how about rustling us some coffee and a snack before we head for El Paso? Horses need a mite of rest and we’re in no hurry.”

“That’s a notion,” the outlaw said. “Come on out to the kitchen. Where you can keep an eye on me,” he grinned, “and I’ll throw something together.

“Hope I’ll be able to chaw,” he added with a chuckle, tenderly caressing his swollen jaw. “Feller, when you hit, you
hit
!”

However, he made out very well with the tasty helping he threw together, and so did Slade.

“I thought I had you when I saw you squattin’ by the window,” he remarked frankly over a final cup of coffee, “but it didn’t work out that way. I’d been looking over those cows on Judson’s holding to see if they were still where they’d been left. Took a short cut across the range. That’s how I happened to be up top the ridge. Lucky for me I took that short cut, or I reckon I wouldn’t right now be in any shape to tell you about it.”

Slade smiled without comment and emptied his cup.

Then, after a cigarette, the Ranger said, “Guess we might as well be going. Be past daybreak when we reach town, as it is. I’m not going to tie you to the saddle, but keep just a little ahead of me as we ride.”

“I won’t even look back,” Wolfson promised.

He didn’t and they reached El Paso without incident.

“And so you finally cleaned ‘em up,” Sheriff Serby commented, after Slade related what happened. “Just as I figured you would. Now let’s see what this gent has to say.”

Without reservation, Wolfson answered all the sheriff’s questions and was locked up for safekeeping.

“Yep, I doubt if the hellion will ever come to trial,” Serby said to Slade. “Really nothing on him. Well, that sort does sometime do an about-face; here’s hoping. I’ll ride down and pick up the carcasses. Sime Judson is in town and he’ll sure be glad to hear about it.”

“Take him along with you and the deputies and let him see the layout,” Slade advised. “A lot of folks are going to be surprised about Evers, but with the bodies lying there alongside the grazing cows and Evers wearing his false beard, I rather think nobody will question what happened.”

“I’d like to see someone try it,” Serby growled. “But just you watch, folks are folks, and the very ones that thought well of Evers when he was alive will be the first to jump on him now he’s dead.”

Slade did not argue the sheriff’s cynical viewpoint. And after listening to some of the remarks made when the story got around, was less inclined to do so.

The verdict of the coroner’s jury, two days later, held that all the hellions got exactly what they had coming.

Nelson Evers and his two followers were buried in quickly forgotten graves. The brush-covered body in the corral canyon was recovered and disposed of in similar fashion.

“How about Evers’ holdings, the grape ranch and the Circle S?” Serby asked. “What’ll be done with them?”

“Will be up to the courts to decide,” Slade answered. “I imagine they’ll be returned to the original owners. He bought both on time, with small down payments, all he ever intended to make. The vineyard was in the nature of a cover-up, to give him an excuse for being in the section and to pose as a reputable businessman. The Circle S was to facilitate his cow stealing.”

At Slade’s instigation, Sheriff Serby sent a brief message to a gentleman named Billings, at the State Capital. It read,

“And I figure that’ll send the sidewinder hunting cover for a while,” Serby said. “And no more real trouble over the Chamizal Zone, though I figure it’ll be quite a while before the argument will be settled.”

“And, I predict, in Mexico’s favor,” Slade observed. Future events would prove him no mean prophet.

“And now?” asked the sheriff.

“And now back to the Post,” Slade said. “Chances are Captain Jim will have something lined up for me by the time I get there. I’ll be seeing you, Trevis.”

It was Carmen who said the last goodbye —

“I’ll be waiting for you, after you’ve made the rounds.”

She laughed gaily as she said it, and waved her hand. But as he rode away, tall and graceful atop his great black horse, to where duty called and danger and new adventures waited, his face ashine with pleasant memories, there were shadows in the depths of her beautiful eyes.

Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, western, and romance genres. Discover more today:

www.prologuebooks.com

This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.prologuebooks.com

Copyright © 1964 by Leslie Scott. Published by arrangement with Golden West
Literary Agency. All rights reserved.

Cover Images © istockphoto/Doug Berry

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 10: 1-4405-4913-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4913-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4911-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4911-3